The English of It

It was a gallant stand, Tom;
Give us your hardy hand, Tom,
For love of the Old Land, Tom,
We grasp it with good-will.
Although you heroes of the Fist
May think more of the golden grist
You bring to such a mill.

'Twas brave to see you dash on, Tom,
And with your one arm lash on, Tom,
In that true English fashion, Tom,
Which never will wear out:
The only fashion that would do,
At Inkerman and Waterloo,
And many a bloody bout.

Through all that punching time, Tom,
The big heart rode sublime, Tom,
As we have seen it climb, Tom,
On other famous fields:

The temper beaten out with blows,
That when to give in never knows,
And so it never yields.

"Valour shall have its crown, Tom,
In your plain way you have shown, Tom,
That we can hold our own, Tom,
Against all comers still;
With not one feather of white in us;
But game, with lots of fight in us;

A heart and a half up-hill.

The Belt with which we are bound, Tom,
Is yon blue Ocean round, Tom;
If any foe be found, Tom,
Who thinks to take it, then
He must fight for it till all's dark,
And one shall go down, red and stark,
Never to rise again.

We won our English Land, Tom,
And keep it hand to hand, Tom,
Like you at need we stand, Tom,
Touch it whoever dares.
If left to battle single-hand,
We fight for this dear England,
As once you fought, Tom Sayers!